


Auguries of Innocence

by Temporalis (Elvaron)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Or platonic crushing, Pining, Puppy Love, Unrequited Love, all the pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 17:26:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4928584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvaron/pseuds/Temporalis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, a long time ago, the Commander of the Inquisition and the Herald of Andraste were simply a templar-in-training and an apprentice in the Ostwick Circle. Once, the biggest demons that they had to face were those of homesickness and loneliness. And once, they might have fought those demons together, and Cullen might have allowed himself to fall just a little in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auguries of Innocence

**Author's Note:**

> One-shot flash fic, written for a [prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15060.html?thread=58960596#t58960596). 
> 
> Warnings for unresolved unrequited love. And all the pining. Also, more flashbacks and time skipping than Alexius having a party with time magic.
> 
> Not beta'd and barely even proofed. Please forgive mistakes.

Cullen doesn't recognise him at first. However, in his defence, there are demons raining out of the Breach, Cassandra's prisoner is looking bedraggled and exhausted, and Cullen's attention is entirely focused on the Mark and the question of whether any of them are going to survive to see the next day.

But somehow, miraculously, they do.

*

_Cullen's sword cuts through what's left of the pride demon, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees the prisoner raise his hand. Green fire splits the air, whining with an unearthly tone that sounds like dwarven machinery, then the rift snaps shut with a crash of thunder that nearly knocks him right over. The prisoner isn't so steady - he staggers and wavers, and instinct makes Cullen lunge forward as the mage topples. His arms wrap around broad shoulders as the prisoner collapses bonelessly onto him, and it's only when he catches a flicker of green irises before the prisoner's eyes slide shut, that his own eyes manage to see beyond the dirt and grime on the mage's face, past the lines that time has carved on that sharp profile, that recognition hits. And with it, something deep within his heart - something he'd thought thoroughly trampled and extinguished beyond recall, or at least buried in a dungeon too deep to ever be unearthed again in this age of the world - flares to life with sudden pang of longing so intense that it steals the very air from his lungs._

*

The room smells of elfroot. 

Adan has come and gone, saying that he can do nothing further. Solas lingered only marginally longer to examine the Mark, before shaking his head and taking off. 

Cullen should be overseeing the troops, drawing up new rotations, checking on supplies and planning their next move, but he's here instead, seated by the Herald's bedside. 

( _'The Herald', because even now, after so many years, so much distance and so much regret, he can't bring himself to even _think_ of that name, the syllables of which he'd turned over in his mind and whispered in the dark, just hear the way they resounded against cold stone._ )

The Herald lies still and unmoving, possibly a slight improvement over the delirious thrashing of hours before, though the fever still burns under his skin, bringing sweat to his brow and a flush to his cheeks. Cullen can't help but wonder if Tr- if the Herald ever blushes, whether there was someone else who pulled that from him, if there was ever that first and awkward love, all stumbling declarations and confessions of feelings, if there was - _is_ \- someone else right now.

Tre- the Herald's hand is resting on top of the coverlet, and his fingers are so long and delicate as Cullen remembers.

_"Ser Cullen, right?"_

_He's seated at the top of the stairs in disused part of the tower. This flight doesn't lead anywhere in particular, the door at the bottom sealed off by a collapsed archway that no one's ever bothered to clear. It might have been a possible escape route, once upon a time, but it's so thoroughly blocked now that the templars don't even bother to post a guard on it. No one comes here, because there's nothing here. Cullen discovered it shortly after his arrival at Ostwick Circle and claimed it as a sanctuary - a place to run to when the training becomes overwhelming, a moment's privacy in a tower that never stops bustling, a space in which to breathe._

_Except that there's someone else in this space right now, and when Cullen glances up, half of him is furious at the intrusion. It's other half, the half that misses brothers and sisters and the warmth of a busy household, a small town in which every neighbour was a friend, that stops him from lashing out straight away._

_The other is an apprentice, possibly just a few years older than him, and he's holding not one, but two steaming mugs of --_

_"Mulled cider," the apprentice says, with a roguish smile and a wink, even as he holds one of the mugs out to Cullen. "I find it's the perfect pick me up after a long day of getting knocked around in the snow. You look like you could use it."_

_Whatever part of him that wanted to bristle and snap at the intruder is rolling over like a mabari puppy demanding a belly rub, and he finds himself taking the mug before he can summon the will to protest. "Just 'Cullen' will do," he feels compelled to say. "I'm still in a training, and besides, I never did like the formality." He pauses, checking his tendency to ramble, then adds, (mostly out of courtesy, although there is a slowly blooming sense of curiosity about this mage who would dare to approach a templar so brazenly), "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."_

_"Maxwell," the other says, and Cullen finds himself shifting over as the apprentice moves to sit beside him on the step._

_That doesn't leave much in the way of conversation, and Cullen's never been particularly good at small talk. He mumbles his thanks instead. They each take a long drink from their mugs, and the cider warms Cullen all the way through._

_"I used to come here too," Maxwell says, quite suddenly. Cullen glances over, to find the mage's eyes locked on the narrow window set in the opposite wall. "Back when I first arrived. I wonder if everyone does, at some point - my parents would have us believe that leaving home is simple, a necessary part of growing up. That somehow, one will simply adapt, everything will fall into place, the world carrying on…"_

_Maxwell has a lovely voice, Cullen thinks - already past the awkward teenage squeaking and breaking, low and rounded baritones, and the way the native Ostwick accent slides off his tongue is not unpleasant at all._

_"I'm sorry," he says, because he can hear the same notes of homesickness and loneliness that creep around Maxwell's words, even if his tone is light. "You must have left home when you were fairly young. At least, for templars, we can say that we had a choice."_

_Maxwell quirks a smile, turning to face him, and Cullen is struck by the warmth in his expression. The mages may be polite to the templars, but few of them are truly friendly - particularly the apprentices, all youth and angst and misery at being forced into this life. "Truth to be told," Maxwell says, "If it hadn't been the Circle, it would have been the templars for me. Long family tradition."_

_Cullen tilts his head, intrigued by a family that would actually send its scions to the Order. He coaxes more details out of Maxwell, and laughs, embarrassed, when he finds out that he's a Trevelyan - he should have known, he says, but he's terrible at matching faces to names and names to faces, but Maxwell chuckles and says he doesn't mind at all, and it's nice, isn't it, to simply be two people for a moment, away from titles and names and labels._

_Two lonely youths, in a darkness broken only by starlight and moonlight, swapping tales of hearth and house, of the past and its nostalgia, of the future and its dreams. Cullen shares his fears of the vigil to come, Maxwell confides his own of the harrowing. The hours fly by, taking with them the pangs of heartache, and Cullen doesn't even notice the absence until they part ways for the night._

_He doesn't realise how hard he's fallen, until much, much later. By then, Ostwick's' Circle tower is a vanishing speck in the distance behind him, the goodbyes have all been said, and there are no more chances to turn back._

Cullen takes the washcloth from the Herald's forehead, soaking it in icy water and mopping the sweat from the mage's brow. The Herald mumbles in his sleep, turning his face into his hand, and Cullen has to tell himself that it's nothing but coincidence. 

*

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, I really want to continue this. But. *looks in despair at all the WIPs*


End file.
